Work Text:
A sliver of quartered, sugared strawberry bumped Rhys's cheek, cold and wet, and he turned his head to gently lift it out of his son's little fingers with his teeth as he smoothed out a slip of parchment and summoned a pen from his pocket dimension.
"Thank you," he muttered around a mouthful of berry.
In his periphery, little wings fluttered happily. "Wellycome, Papa."
Stifling a fond snort, Rhys cast a look down at the toddler perched dangerously close to the edge of the counter. "Now sit back down."
Such a command that would have made any Hewn City courtier's knees fall out from under them, but Nyx merely grinned a broad, toothy grin at his father, his mouth and chin stained pink with berry juice, and plopped back down on his bottom. Rhys nudged the small bowl containing the rest of Nyx's dessert further onto the counter.
His son taking a small tumble was manageable—a valuable learning opportunity for any growing Carynthian, really—but the tantrum Nyx would throw if his sweet treat was the one that splattered on the tile below?
Hells no. Rhys wouldn't be taking any chances tonight.
He positioned the nib of his pen over the parchment and regarded his son seriously. "Alright, son. You remember what Mama told us at dinner."
Nyx's tiny, dark head bobbed. "Uh huh."
Rhys mimicked the nod and began to write. "She's going to school, so she can be the best High Lady in Prythian. She's never been to school before, but she decided to work so hard and go learn at night, after she spends all day ruling the Night Court with Papa. Isn't Mama so brave?"
"So brave." Nyx's head bobbed again in agreement as he mashed the tip of his index finger into a raspberry. His eyes—a perfect mirror of his mother's, the sight of which never failed to make Rhys's heart squeeze with complete happiness—widened with babyish sincerity. "An' pretty."
Rhys grinned and scrawled another line. Like father, like son. "Mama is pretty, that's right."
"An' smart."
"Mhm, smart, I already have that. What else is Mama?"
"A good flyer."
"Ah! Why didn't I think of that?" He tapped Nyx on the tip of his freckled button nose and wrote, And you are… a good… flyer…
Nyx wriggled in place. "We can go fly?"
Shit.
Rhys's hand stilled, and he cast a glance over his shoulder. The faint noises of Feyre frantically packing and unpacking and repacking the messenger bag that he'd bought her when she announced her intention to apply to the University of Velaris last spring drifted through the house, the bond closed down firmly on her end.
After dinner, she'd disappeared into her study, and she'd been so anxious when he followed her in that she had chased him out of the room by crafting a vicious, snappy little terrier from the murky cup of water she cleaned her paintbrushes in.
The High Lady of the Night Court had ordered him in no uncertain terms to go bathe Nyx and put him to bed.
Nyx scooched closer to the edge of counter, levering himself back up onto his knees.
"Papa…"
Rhys's hand flexed on the pen as Nyx shoved his round face into the embroidered lapel of his jacket. Delicate, minuscule wings spread wide and then curved around them both, anchoring Nyx to Rhys's front.
"Please? We can go fly?"
Rhys loosed a breath, looking back down at the small boy who knew all the right buttons to press to turn a High Lord into putty—and then through the wide wall of windows at the far end of the kitchen. It was a beautiful evening. The sky was clear, the first pinpricks of stars just visible through the gloaming, the late summer air balmy and sweet.
A perfect night for flying. The sort that made saccharine, time-hazed memories of secret flights over the Sidra with his own mother linger at the forefront of his mind.
He dropped a kiss into his boy's hair. Gently, tickling at the edges of Nyx's excited mind to announce himself, he whispered, After Mama goes to school, Nyxie.
Nyx reared back, ready to cheer—and then went still and silent when he caught sight of his father's finger over his lips.
Shh.
"Shh," Nyx repeated, clumsily copying the gesture, his wings tucking in tight against his back.
"Good," Rhys murmured. He signed off on the note and then took up one of Nyx's sticky hands, curling it gently around the pen and cupping his own palm around it.
Nyx giggled as Rhys guided his chubby hand through the loops and curves of his name, leaving a sloppy, syrup stained and Nyx below his own signature. Then, with a flourish of darkness and an audible lightning-crack of magic just to show off for his boy, he banished the pen back to his pocket dimension and drew out the notebook he'd stolen from Feyre's study, slipping the note in between the first and second pages.
Nyx squirmed, the bowl of berries entirely forgotten as he held open his arms to Rhys. "We go now?"
"We’ll go soon," Rhys corrected, lifting the boy off of the counter and propping him on a hip, making for the hall. "Just as soon as we give Mama a kiss for good luck."
The sensation of a curious, sticky finger wedged itself into Rhys's ear, going deeper and deeper until Nyx's fledgling daemati magic bounced off of the adamant walls of his father's shield.
And hugs!
Rhys jostled the boy on his hip, redirecting Nyx back into his own small head with a gentle push.
Of course. Mama can never go unhugged.
"Feyre darling," he called. "I found that notebook!"